


Harry Potter and the Scroll of Truth

by Setcheti



Series: Harry Potter and the Well-Remembered Dream [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-19
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-07-14 10:03:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16038209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Setcheti/pseuds/Setcheti
Summary: Harry's dream had gotten some things right...but some other things have turned out quite a bit different.





	1. Chapter 1

Harry sat poised astride his broom some sixty feet above the Quidditch pitch, looking for the Snitch.

The Snitch not being in evidence just at that moment – and the opposing team’s Seeker being preoccupied at altitude himself some little distance away – Harry was using the time to clear his head. Something about being up high, flying, made it easier for him to sort his thoughts out and put them into order. The flying instructor, Madame Hooch, had assured him that was a fairly common feeling among Quidditch players, herself included, which had made him feel quite good about it rather than thinking it made him strange.

His green Quidditch robes billowed in the breeze, and he smiled. Getting sorted into Slytherin House the previous year hadn’t been an outcome he’d anticipated. Just like his dream, Harry had met the Weasley family at the train station, struck up a friendship with Ron on the train itself, and been completely petrified while waiting his turn at the Sorting Hat. Unlike his dream, however, once Harry had sat down and the Hat had been dropped on top of his head…said Hat had hummed for just a moment and then screamed out, “SLYTHERIN!” No discussion, no debate. Slytherin House had been Harry Potter’s House from that point forward.

Nope, not an outcome he’d anticipated – or one Headmaster Dumbledore had anticipated either, if the look on the man’s face at the time had been anything to go by. And everything had just gotten stranger from there on.

Entering Slytherin had been nothing like Harry remembered his dream-introduction to Gryffindor being. Professor Snape had pointed out the various pitfalls inherent along their path – the most direct path to and from the Main Hall, he’d informed them, although not the easiest to navigate – as he’d led them down to the Slytherin dormitory. And once in their common room, instead of instructing them all on the rules and then leaving everyone to choose their own bed, he’d instead passed out scrolls and quills and instructed them to answer the questions in the scroll as quickly and as accurately as possible.

Harry had lied on at least half of them, hedging on a few but out-and-out fabricating the answers to others. There was no way he was going to tell anyone here about the Dursleys, no way at all. Not that he thought the potions master would believe him even if he did, since he distinctly remembered the man not liking him at all. Professor Snape had stayed in the common room until every last first-year student was finished with his or her scroll, then he’d collected everything and left after ordering them all to remain in the room until the house-elves appeared to show them to their assigned beds.

Harry hadn’t quite known what to make of that, but there had been refreshments laid out on a large table, the fire had been warm after the clammy drizzle outside and the stone-chill of the corridors, and most of the other new students had looked equally as shell-shocked as he’d been feeling, so he’d supposed it was all right. He’d even started chatting with a few of the others, and had found to his surprise that not all Slytherins were like Draco Malfoy – who to his even greater surprise had seemed to be just as nervous as everyone else.

The house elves had arrived after about an hour, and Harry along with six other first years were led to a chamber where their trunks and other possessions were waiting for them. The chamber was an internal one, windowless, and the fireplace that warmed it had a stout iron grate bolted across the opening.

Harry had started to get a bad feeling. The fireplace network – flue or flea, something like that – was a way to get from place to place. Were he and these other students considered escape risks, for some reason?  Was that why precautions had been taken so that they couldn’t leave the room save by the single door?  Or was this common to every dormitory in Slytherin?  He’d thought about it while he unpacked, but hadn’t been able to come up with an explanation that made sense. Maybe when they got the rules, it would be explained then.

Which had prompted Harry to wonder if there actually _were_ any rules in Slytherin House. He supposed there had to be, but he really wasn’t sure.

Two house elves appeared once everyone had settled in and gotten ready for bed, and to Harry’s shock Professor Snape had appeared right behind them. Even more shocking, the potions master had looked bothered by something, if not outright shaken. But he’d been as crisp as ever when he ordered them to each have a seat in the center of their beds, and then very precisely began to explain things without explaining them. The room could only be accessed by the main door. No windows, no trap doors, no passageways in the walls, no Floo – that had been it, Floo. The two house elves, now standing by the door like short, spindly sentries, were particularly assigned to the room and were completely trustworthy – he’d emphasized _completely_ , and Harry had seen two of his roommates visibly relax.

And then Snape had taught them their first spell. Right there, just like that. He’d showed them how to raise a ward of personal protection, how to set the ward to surround their beds while they slept, and how to take it down once it wasn’t needed any longer. With a patience Harry never would have suspected the potions master of possessing just on the basis of his dream-memories, Snape led them through the necessary steps until all seven of them had mastered the warding spell, then had them cast it one final time around the beds and checked each ward himself before bidding them goodnight and sweeping out of the room.

Tired as he’d been, Harry had lain awake for quite a while that first night trying to figure it all out.


	2. Chapter 2

As surprised as Severus Snape had been to have James and Lily Potter’s son Sorted into Slytherin, he’d been moved nearly to fury when he’d read Harry’s scroll. The scrolls were enchanted, as were the special quills used to write on them; no matter what had been written, once unrolled by Snape the scroll told only the truth. In detail.

The scene in Dumbledore’s office that first evening after he’d settled his new Slytherins would have shocked Harry to the depths of his being. Snape had erupted into the room in an angry swirl of black robes, a scroll clutched in his clenched fist. “Keeping an eye on the situation, were you?!” he demanded of the white-haired headmaster, shocking the other three heads of house sitting in the room. “And haven’t I told you we need to fix that bloody hat?!”

The other instructors looked uncomfortable; they knew what he was talking about. Child abuse had long been a taboo subject in the Wizarding world, a ‘dirty little secret’ as it were, and the Sorting Hat had a predilection for putting any child with such secrets into Slytherin. It was Snape who had begun the practice of making his students fill out the enchanted scrolls as soon as they were Sorted into his House, who had magically bound a few house elves to be completely trustworthy and incorruptible for the sake of his ‘special’ students, who assigned mentors and watchers and peer-teachers from amongst his trusted older students to be there when he himself could not. The other teachers, exemplary though they were in other ways and not uncaring in the least, were simply not sure they could handle the situation as well as their younger compatriot had. And Albus Dumbledore, having much greater problems to deal with, just ignored the whole situation. Or so it seemed.

Minerva McGonagall was the first to react after the potions master’s dramatic entrance. The Head of Gryffindor House sat up out of the well-padded depths of her highly-comfortable chair, disbelief and suspicion warring in her expression. “The last time I heard that,” she said slowly, “was when you told me that Harry Potter had to be left with his Muggle relatives for his own good.”

“The blood wards,” Professor Flitwick chirped, and beside him Professor Sprout nodded. “Yes, I remember. The boy’s aunt was his last remaining blood relative, was she not?”

Dumbledore’s answer was the barest of nods, and Snape snorted, duplicating the scroll he held with a quick spell and then tossing the copy to McGonagall. “An honor which apparently meant far less to her than might have been expected,” he sneered, repeating the action for Flitwick, Sprout, and lastly Dumbledore. “Although those expectations might have been significantly less if anyone had bothered to share the knowledge that said family possesses a deep and abiding hatred not only of magic and wizards in general, but of the Potter family in particular. The famous ‘Boy Who Lived’ has lived in a cupboard beneath the stairs his entire life and has never owned a piece of clothing that wasn’t a hand-me-down from his cousin – who happens to be three times his size. He’s been the family’s house elf, scapegoat and punching bag ever since he could walk.”  He took a deep breath. “I had no love for the boy’s father, as everyone here well knows. But no matter how much I hated James Potter, I would never have wished such a life on his son.”

“We know _you_ wouldn’t have, Severus,” McGonagall reassured him. She glared at Dumbledore. “Didn’t want his head turned by his fame, wasn’t that the reasoning you gave me for leaving him with those horrid Muggles in the first place?  Were you thinking that it was better for him to be abused rather than spoiled?”

“This is outrageous!” Flitwick exclaimed, his face turning red as he took in the contents of his scroll. “Albus, how could you?  No child deserves this!”

“I agree.”  Sprout was angry as well. “No one in their right mind would countenance making an innocent babe suffer so for a set of blood wards!  What were you thinking?”

Dumbledore unrolled his own copy of the scroll, quickly reading down it with a frown on his lined face, then shook his head and twitched his wand. He was almost as surprised as the scowling members of his staff when the spell he’d surreptitiously cast bounced off a magical shield in front of them and fizzled into nothingness – but not before leaving faint golden letters hanging in the air that spelled out _Obliviate_ and _Inflamare_. Snape rolled his eyes. “I was afraid that would be your response to the situation,” he said in a cold voice. “Luckily, I took precautions. And I repeat: No matter how much I may have detested the boy’s father, I cannot and will not countenance subjecting an innocent child to such unnecessary denigration and abuse.”  He pulled back his left sleeve, revealing a snake-shaped Mark that made the other instructors gasp. “And neither would Lord Voldemort, were he here today – he was raised in a similar situation himself, it was one of his original reasons for wishing to ‘clean house’ in Wizarding Britain.”

Flitwick found his voice first. “Severus…you were a Death Eater?”

Snape nodded. “In a moment of youthful indiscretion, I took the Mark. It wasn’t long after that the Dark Lord lost his mind, and I appealed to Headmaster Dumbledore for help. I’ve been his spy among the Death Eaters for the past twelve years – not that there’s been much to spy upon in the last ten, but I pass on what information I receive. Which is how I know…”

“STOP!” Dumbledore thundered, completely furious now. “I forbid you..."

“…That Lord Voldemort is planning to return, and indeed has already taken steps in that direction,” Snape finished, unimpressed by the order. “He possessed multiple Horcruxes, and one of them time-activated exactly one year before Harold James Potter came of age to attend Hogwarts. I believe him to be disembodied at present, a body-riding ghoul. He can’t possess anyone with his Mark, however, nor can he activate the Marks and recall the Death Eaters to his service unless he is fully returned to a body of his own.”

“Which he would need Harry Potter’s blood to accomplish,” McGonagall added, shocking the other Heads and Dumbledore as well. She was plainly furious now. “I knew about Severus, and he is telling the truth,” she told Flitwick and Sprout. “What he’s not saying – and forgive me for this, Severus – is that he also was raised in less than acceptable conditions as a child, and continued to experience an unacceptable level of abuse from some of the other students here at Hogwarts – which was allowed to continue almost unchecked by order of the Headmaster.”

“Hmm.” Flitwick cocked his head at the red-faced old wizard, considering that. “Making sure you’d have some on both sides of the prophesied war, were you, Albus? You always were one for intrigue. So why the Potter boy, then? Planning to swoop in and rescue him, perhaps? Guarantee his loyalty that way?”

Dumbledore unlocked his jaw with an effort. “There is more at stake here than the ‘happiness’ of one person, or even a dozen,” he ground out. “Our responsibility is to the Wizarding World, even to the world at large, and I, at least, take that quite seriously.”

Sprout had been giving him a very penetrating look, lips pursed, and then she shook her head and aimed her wand at the fire, muttering something which made it turn green. “Poppy!” she called, and the school’s mediwitch immediately stuck her head out. “Dear, we have a problem. I believe our Headmaster may have been slowly going insane and nobody noticed.”

“He’s not getting any younger,” Poppy Pomfrey said, squinting out of the grate at the fuming man and then shaking her head and aiming her wand. “ _Tranquillo mentalis_!” Dumbledore tried to avoid the spell, but it went right through the shield he threw up and he immediately relaxed back into his chair, looking calm and ever so slightly confused. The mediwitch stepped out of the grate and cast a quiet diagnosis spell on him, then frowned and cast a different one which made him glow blue for a moment. “Oh dear, no wonder he’s not been matching his clothes properly – I just thought he was going colorblind.”

Her wand twitched, and Dumbledore slumped, apparently asleep. She raised an eyebrow when McGonagall cast _Petrificus totallus_ on him as well, and the other witch shook her head. “I wouldn’t put it past him to be faking, Poppy, and just waiting to catch us off-guard. He tried to obliviate all of us and destroy the scrolls.” She handed her copy of the scroll over. “He knew, you see. He _made_ that happen to that poor child – and since there’s no way you’d have failed to notice, he was most likely planning on obliviating you as well whenever it came up.”

Pomfrey unrolled the scroll and read it, growing redder and redder in the face the further down she got. Then she went back and read part of it again…and then she raised her eyes from the scroll to scowl at the sleeping, petrified old wizard. She handed the scroll back to McGonagall, stalked over to Dumbledore and laid the tip of her wand against his forehead. “ _Expiscor morbus_.” An orb of yellow-gold light appeared over the old wizard’s head, then spread out and began to envelop him; once it had covered him completely, it contracted, slowly sinking in, and then a few moments later the orb rose out of the top of his head, now swimming with a sickening miasma of colors. It contracted with a pop, and the mediwitch reached out to catch the scroll that fell out of the place where it had been. She tucked her wand into her apron pocket and checked the contents of the scroll, then shook her head and went back to the grate. “St. Mungo’s, Mediwizard Orbys please.”

An older man’s head appeared after a moment. “On the first day of school! Please tell me this is just a social call, Poppy.”

“I only wish, Steven.” She held out the scroll, and he took it. “I was thinking I’d just missed it, but now I suspect he may have been obliviating me or worse.” His eyebrows went up when he unrolled the scroll and saw the name, and she nodded. “Can you contain him there?”

“No,” the mediwizard said without hesitation. “Merlin, this is…I’ll call someone, Poppy, and I’ll be there myself in five minutes – keep this connection open, and have someone keep their wand on him just in case.”

“We’re already doing that,” Pomfrey told him, and then his head withdrew and she turned back around. “I can’t share the exact details, you know that,” she said before any of the opening mouths could ask. “What you need to know is that he’s definitely not in his right mind and his magic is unbound and tainted. I suspect that if you check his wand you’ll find its core is either corrupted or completely rotted away.”

Flitwick immediately hopped up to do that, and exclaimed in disgust over what he found. He wrapped a separate containment spell around the wand. “We’ll have to decontaminate this office,” he said. “And check anything that wand has touched.”

Sprout looked horrified. “It’s not contagious, is it?”

“Possibly, it’s pernicious rot,” Flitwick confirmed. “I’ll get Ollivander up here to help, he’s the only person I know who’s ever dealt with a case this bad. He’ll also be able to tell us how long this condition has been going on. I fear it’s been quite a long time.”

“Possibly since before I was a student here, and most definitely during that time due to some of the…poor decisions which were made,” Snape confirmed. He held up a hand when McGonagall gave him a look. “Minerva, please. It is not Remus Lupin I hate, it’s his condition – I am well aware he was infected through no fault of his own. But placing a young student with a highly contagious, incurable condition into close contact with other children was an unconscionable risk, and not just because of his bite. Someday we’ll have a decent palliative, perhaps even a cure – I personally have been working on both for years – but until that happens it’s simply not safe for a werewolf to mingle freely on their own recognizance anywhere they wish to. You know as well as I do that they experience behavioral shifts as the moon waxes, and it is not unusual for a werewolf in the final days before the full moon to sabotage their own containment systems to facilitate later escape and yet have no conscious memory of having done it afterwards.”

“He’s right, Minerva,” Pomfrey agreed absently. “You know I adored Remus, he was the sweetest boy, but it was a good deal of work to keep him here safely and not pleasant for him in the least. Calming potions and chastity spells and all the things he had to be excused from, not to mention him having to have a magical monitor on him at all times so we’d know if something went wrong - he was more in prison here than he’d have been in one of the lycanthrope villages. Not to mention his friends were rather abusing the situation, from what I could see.”

“They were,” Snape agreed. “But that’s because Headmaster Dumbledore was allowing it, possibly even facilitating some of it, and definitely hiding the majority of it from you, Minerva. I think you’d have noticed that Black, Potter and Wormtail had all managed to become animagi if he hadn’t been.”

“They weren’t…!”

“They were. They’d go down to Lupin during his moon-time in the Shrieking Shack, change, and keep him entertained until he changed back at dawn.” He cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable. “I know you always thought my hatred of James was because of Lily, and because he was an unrepentant bully besides, and that was part of it…but what you weren’t _allowed_ to know was that he and his friends tried to trick me into going down to the Shrieking Shack one full moon, and I’d have been killed or worse if Potter hadn’t had an attack of conscience and stopped me. I eventually came to suspect that he hadn’t expected Black to let it go that far.” He raised a hand at her opening mouth. “Not like anyone would have believed me, even if I had disobeyed the headmaster and tried to tell anyone. Lupin of course knew nothing about it, which made the whole thing infinitely worse.”

Flitwick had been thinking. “Severus, you said He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named went insane? I don’t suppose you know where his wand went, do you? Because pernicious rot _can_ be quite contagious, and I recall Albus taking a great deal of interest in young Mr. Riddle when he was a student here. If we could examine that wand, we would – well, Ollivander would – be able to tell who had infected whom.”

Snape shook his head. “I know the wand still exists, but not who keeps it. Assuming it’s being kept and hasn’t just been well-hidden. Lord Voldemort was growing more and more paranoid towards the end, and his behavior had become quite erratic.”

“Yes, that would fit,” Flitwick said. “Another question for Ollivander, then. I shall call him in just as soon as the Headmaster is secured.”

Sprout had been giving her scroll a more thorough reading. “Oh dear, the boy is a Parselmouth too – he talked to a snake at a Muggle zoo and then accidentally freed it with magic. We’ll have to tell Hagrid, he’s going to be delighted.”

McGonagall sighed, not taking her eyes off of Dumbledore – she didn’t dare, even with all the spells. Parseltongue was a somewhat rare gift among modern wizards, and those who had it were often suspected of Dark Wizardry. Just what that poor child needed on top of all the rest. But Hagrid would indeed be delighted, and perhaps his enthusiasm would transmit itself to the other students; she would speak to him about it herself later. It would be nice if _something_ good were to come out of this mess.

She hadn’t realized she’d muttered that last bit aloud until Pomfrey responded, startling her. “Something already has, _Headmistress_ McGonagall,” the mediwitch said placidly; she, also, was keeping a watchful eye on Dumbledore, her wand at the ready just in case. “Now we all know what the problem has been – the source of many, many problems, I’m afraid. But knowing that means we can fix things.”


	3. Chapter 3

His first week at Hogwarts had gone quickly, and by the end of it Harry had still been trying to figure things out. Headmaster Dumbledore was gone; at breakfast on their second day of school, Professor McGonagall had announced that the headmaster had been taken ill and probably would not be back any time soon. He’d been infected with something, apparently something that was quite contagious because they’d all been sent back to their Houses instead of going to class and the school’s mediwitch, Madame Pomfrey, along with other mediwitches and mediwizards from someplace called St. Mungos had gone from House to House checking every student before sending them all back down to the Great Hall for a rather late lunch, although they’d had to leave their wands on their beds before they could go. Some few people, Harry included, had been pulled aside later and taken before Mr. Ollivander, who had looked very tired, to be fitted for new wands. “Some illnesses can infect the wand as well as the wielder,” he’d told them. “Or vice-versa as well. Don’t be concerned, though; you’ll be taught to recognize the signs of such an…infection, and eventually checking and cleaning your wand will become as much a habit as brushing your teeth.”

“But how did it happen?” one of the other affected students had wanted to know, a lanky redhead whose twin was right beside him – Ron’s brothers Fred and George, with Ron standing by them looking worried. “And what if we can’t afford a new wand, what then?”

Ollivander had nodded to him. “Mr. Weasley, everyone affected is having their wand replaced free of charge. I haven’t seen an outbreak like this in an _extremely_ long time, and the infected wands must be quarantined and studied very carefully. We’ve already notified everyone’s parents as well, just in case their wands also need replacing. Now if you’d please step forward, let’s see what type of wand you’ll be chosen by this time around…”

Harry had returned to his dorm that evening with a wand made of snakewood and some type of horn, the choosing of which had made Ollivander smile. “I’m disappointed I didn’t see it sooner,” the wandmaker had said cryptically. “You’ll need a special polish for this one, Mr. Potter, to keep the colours from darkening and the wood from becoming brittle; I’ll owl you a bottle tomorrow with instructions. This wand will be a bit more work for you than the last one, but if you take good care of her she’ll hum in your hand when you speak to her specially and sing to you when danger is near.”

Harry had been glad to hear that, and had hugged the wand to him all the way back to his dorm. And it had ‘sung’ for him once as they walked through the halls, which had startled Harry and by extension Professor Snape to the point of making the man stop dead in his tracks. The potions master had shaken it off very quickly and continued herding them along to the dungeons, but once there he had followed Harry into his dorm room and instructed him that if the wand were to ‘sing’ again that night one of the house elves should be sent to fetch Snape at once.

His Head of House was one of the other and even more strangely different things Harry was now experiencing. In his dream, Professor Snape had been mean, vindictive, and just generally nasty. But in the reality as Harry was now living it, the potions master was ten times the head of house Professor McGonagall had been. Snape didn’t just pitch his students in and sit back to see if they got with the program or not. He was, in fact, surprisingly hands-on. He was always dropping hints, or offering advice, or asking questions, and he was prone to appear wherever his students were at any time.

Harry had never realized, having only his dream experiences to go by, that the students of Slytherin House got singled out in a negative way far more often than anyone else did, by other students as well as sometimes other teachers. It was a prejudice, apparently, one Snape had addressed the first week – indirectly. He’d gotten them all up and led them down to the dining hall that first morning, making an offhand comment as he did about it being ‘useful’ to always arrive at any destination at least a bit earlier than expected. He’d also seated them amongst the older Slytherins already at the table, making brief introductions as he did, and being oddly particular about who he placed next to whom. Harry and his six dorm-mates especially; they were all given into the care of fifth and sixth year students, who continued to pop up and check on them for the rest of the day.

And the rest of the week after that, and off and on ever since. The House prefects kept tabs on them too. But no one except for Snape and the two designated house elves ever entered Harry’s dorm room. He’d eventually realized that no one else _could_ enter the room; it was warded so tightly that not even a mouse or a bug could creep in, much less a human being. The physical safety of himself and his housemates was apparently a priority to their Head of House, just as much as their general well-being appeared to be.

And it took a while, but Harry eventually found out why that was. He and his six roommates all had something in common – something terrible, something most of the other students thankfully weren’t able to understand. Their Head of House understood it, though, and he was helping them as much as he could. The seven of them had a regular appointment every two weeks with Madame Pomfrey, an appointment they shared with a similar group of Slytherin girls. There were ten of the girls, two of them brash and aggressive but the rest quiet and cringing. Harry and his dorm-mates quickly became very protective of their female counterparts, but by order of their Head and Madame Pomfrey they weren’t allowed to coddle them. “Look out for each other as equals,” Madame Pomfrey had told them. “That means helping the weaker ones learn to be strong, dears, and only shielding them until they find their feet.”

Professor Snape had taken that one step further. “House loyalty is a double-edged sword,” he’d explained – to their year as a whole, not just to Harry’s own group. “Not all of you are going to comport yourselves as you should, and whenever you fail to do so you put your fellow Slytherins into a position of having to support you even though what we’d really like to do is thrash you to within an inch of your life. Which will not happen,” he’d warned – and he’d been serious about the implied threat, Harry could tell. “If one of your housemates steps out of line, you are to remove them from the situation and bring them back to the House, and I am to be notified at once. We are Slytherins, we maintain our composure at all times if at all possible and handle personal matters in private; doing so puts you in a position of strength, it causes others to look to you when a calmer head is needed, and it disarms your detractors. Our House stands for cunning, intelligence and ambition, not bullying, bragging, and fighting – that’s Gryffindor.” A ripple of giggles had spread through the assembled first-years, and he’d just barely smiled. “You’re not to repeat that, by the way. And while we’re on the subject of ambition: It is a term that is often misused. Ambition is wishing to better yourself, to achieve things, to earn authority, power, and prestige – do note that I said earn. If you reach for that which you have not earned you are not ambitious, you’re just a greedy fool and no matter how much power you grasp you will never be anything else. And not only will you yourself always know that…you’ll forever fear that others will find it out as well.”

Those words had lit up like a light bulb in Harry’s head, and the expression on his face must have given that away because the professor had looked startled for a moment, then nodded at him. “Mr. Potter understood that, one point to Slytherin for making the connection so quickly. I’ve met your uncle,” he’d told Harry. “He’s such a textbook example of the concept that if I open a book on it his picture should be there.”

Harry was so astounded by this – and by the fact that he’d earned a point for his House – that it didn’t occur to him until later that night to wonder when Professor Snape could possibly have met his Uncle Vernon…


End file.
